


flying with angels

by 51stCenturyFox



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergence, Christmas, Fear of Flying, Fluff, Holding Hands, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Realization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 08:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5533946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another. </p><p>~Luciano de Crescenzo</p>
            </blockquote>





	flying with angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thaddeusfavour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thaddeusfavour/gifts).



They find the Continental on Christmas Eve in Scottsdale. It’s not a complete lost cause but it’ll need more work than Dean had thought, even to get it back to the bunker. A whole day’s worth, at least, more likely two. He wishes he’d had Sam wait before hauling ass back, but it’s Christmas tomorrow, after all, and the kid had likely assumed Dean and Cas would be an hour or two behind him. 

“Yeah, so...we’re not gonna make it back tonight,” Dean tells him.

“It’s Christmas Eve, Dean,” Sam says, and there’s an edge to his voice. He doesn’t want to spend another holiday alone, then. “You can’t spend Christmas Eve working on that piece of crap.”

“Hey, calm down,” Dean says, checking to see if Cas can hear this, but he’s buying something out of a vending machine. He lowers his voice anyway. “It’s not a piece of crap.”

“Yes it is.”

Dean laughs into his phone. Cas is several yards away. “Yeah, well, if it wasn’t before, Mentaltron didn’t do any maintenance, shit’s all...we’ll rent a car.”

“It’s a 15-hour drive. You won’t make it.” 

And fuck if he wants to disappoint Sam on yet another Christmas. Especially when everybody’s whole and well. Not after a siren case with a blonde who’d turned his brother into a sad, clingy puppy outside of an afternoon in Gila Bend. Finding Cas’s car had been dumb luck when Sam saw it on a statewide set-for-impound list.

“We’ll get there for Christmas. Don’t worry about it. In fact, take that bone-in ham out of the freezer.”

Cas is strangely okay about leaving the car here until they can come back later to fix it; hell, Dean might even have a garage tow it in and do the honors even though he’s perfectly capable of the work if he’d had all of the tools in the bunker’s garage and some parts. They should just write it off and get Cas another, but the guy’s attached to his hoopty. Dean gets it. Cas leans against the dead Lincoln, pocketing a packet of sunflower seeds. 

“We can fly, Dean,” he says. 

Yeah, okay. He’ll risk intestinal discomfort for his little brother. “I thought you didn’t have your wings back to-”

“On a plane. I checked the Delta app and there are several seats remaining.” 

Of course Cas has an airline app on his phone. He’d had to get around the world somehow. And he has a couple of clean credit cards. It’s just...well...flying. 

“We can’t take our weapons on a plane, Cas,” Dean argues. “And I don’t think the driver’s licenses I have are gonna fool the TSA. We should just rent a car, get back tomorr-”

“Please trust me,” Cas says. 

Moments later, Dean flashes his fake FBI credentials at the motel’s front desk and convinces the clerk the dead car is evidence and should be left in the corner of the lot until it can be processed after the holidays, then calls the sheriff and requests a courtesy ride to the airport. 

 

“Agent Perry, Agent Whitford,” the deputy nods at them at the dropoff point. “You have a good trip home for the holidays.”

“We will,” Cas assures him, slamming the door. They each have a duffel bag, which doesn’t look like something FBI agents probably carry, but it won’t matter, Dean hopes...they’re not using the Fed cred at the airport. He waits as Cas retrieves the tickets from the airline’s kiosk -- he’s apparently an old hand at this by now -- and they head to security.

“You sure this’ll work?” Dean asks him. He’s nervous about the flight, and he’s extra nervous about the gun tucked into the back of his waistband and his own knife Cas is carrying in his boot. The angel blade “ _doesn’t exist on this plane of existence until I summon it, Dean_ ,” so that’s okay, but…they go through the first checkpoint like nothing, the security agent barely glancing at their IDs.

“Take off your shoes, Dean,” Cas hisses from behind him. “And your belt.” Shit. They’re going to be arrested at Sky Harbor airport and thrown in jail for being ISIS or Hans Gruber’s crew or something.

Dean pads in stocking feet to the x-ray machine and as he raises his arms as instructed, he feels a lick of grace at the back of his neck, senses it all the way to his toes. 

“Sir? Step forward please.” Shit. Shit shit shit. But the TSA agent is just gesturing at the trays full of travelers’ shoes and laptops because he’s dawdling, and Dean lets out a relieved sigh. 

“Told you,” Cas mutters when they’re seated on the bench with their bags.

“It’s a good thing we’re good guys,” Dean sniffs, tying his shoe. 

“Yes, it is,” Cas agrees. 

“I need a drink,” Dean says.

But there’s no time for stopping at one of the airport bars before they board, so Dean presses his lips together, follows Cas to the gate desk and Row Very Last, seats A and B, tucks his bag into the overhead compartment across the aisle over a family and settles next to the window. 

“You need to put on your seat belt, Dean,” Cas says. “You’re also supposed to leave it on in case there is turbulence during the flight.”

“Uh, thanks for the reminder.” Turbulence. Great. Dean peers out of the window. The sky’s clear at least. Thanks, global warming. Well, it’s Arizona, so...

The pre-flight safety video is [ridiculous and jokey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kfFHn6DxvEg%20), with...furries? Dean thinks he sees Moses, too, but his mouth goes dry at the words “rough air” and “safety vests,” and his nails dig deep into his knees. Cas adjusts the little round vents overhead and cooler air starts blowing on his perspiring temples as the plane begins to taxi down the runway. Dean shuts his eyes and feels Cas’s hand on his wrist before it slides down and captures his fingers, winding his own into them. 

He’s such a goddamn baby that an angel has to hold his hand on an airplane and he doesn’t even care that the kid across the aisle, the little kid who isn’t afraid about being 30,000 feet up like it’s routine (fine, yeah, Dean knows it’s routine for most) is probably staring at them. The plane goes aloft and Dean keeps his eyes closed until it levels and after that, his sweaty hand still clasped in Cas’s warm, dry one. Not wanting to move, he pretends he’s on a bus, trying to fall asleep.

Cas shifts beside him later, and Dean blinks to see him dropping down his tray table. “Can I get something for your...husband?” The flight attendant says, and before Dean can open his mouth to protest, Cas replies. “Jack Daniels. And one for me. No ice, please.” Cas doesn’t let go of his hand even as he fumbles his wallet from the breast pocket of his trench coat and pays. The little girl across the aisle isn’t looking at them at all; she’s playing some kind of game on a tablet.

Cas leans toward Dean and whispers, conspiratorial. “Both of them are for you.” He even stacks the little packaged gingerbread cookies on the left side of the tray, nearer to Dean.

“Thank you,” Dean says, grateful. He tosses one drink back, enjoys the burn, and sips the other. He’d need both hands free to open the cookie packets, so he doesn’t, and he doesn’t think too much more about that. 

Their seats don’t go back, but Dean supposes he’s as comfortable as he can be, and shuts his eyes again after the flight attendant clears their plastic cups and napkins. 

“If you want to sleep…” Cas says, _sotto voce_ , and Dean realizes he’s offering to mojo him into a nap.

“No, I’m good,” Dean whispers back. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Cas tells him, and while that’s a great sentiment, even an angel can’t stop a deathtrap from dropping out of the sky if there’s engine failure or a...a lightning strike to a wing. His thoughts are interrupted by the pilot saying something about an hour left to go and no sign of Santa and his reindeer yet even though it’s already getting dark outside, and Dean lets his eyes slide closed again.

Dean’s stomach drops as the plane lowers altitude approaching Kansas City, but the landing is pretty smooth. Still, he doesn’t let go of his held breath or Castiel’s hand until the plane’s on the ground and the passengers around them are busily gathering their bags and texting their rides. 

“Come on,” Dean says over his shoulder as they walk down the jetway into the airport. “Let’s rent a car.”

There are cheaper compacts, but Dean gets the last Chevy Malibu on principle, hits the head before they drop their bags into the trunk and pull onto I-70. It’ll take a while to get home; should be eleven or so by then. 

The car’s an automatic, but Dean’s fingers twitch on the gear knob anyway. He’d held Castiel’s hand for two and a half hours. That’s got to be his personal record for holding anybody’s hand ever, even in a movie theater back in one of the high schools he’d attended. He’s never held a man’s hand since he’s been a man himself. An airplane is a public place. And nobody had cared.

Dean clears his throat. “Still got those sunflower seeds, Cas?”

“Yes.”

“Pass ‘em over?”

“I was going to plant them. I like the flowers.” 

Dean laughs. “Dude, you can’t. They’re...they’re salted, right?” Looking pissy, Cas pulls the bag from his trench coat pocket. “C’mon, don’t be mad. I’ll buy you some real seeds you can plant.”

He tears the bag open with his teeth and offers some to Cas. 

“No thank you, Dean.”

There’s a pause. “So, it’s Christmas eve. You staying over?” He spits a sunflower shell into his hand. There’s nowhere to put it. He didn’t really think this through.

“I don’t have a car,” Cas points out.

Dean glances his way. “Is that why you’re staying?” Cas hesitates. “Because you’re invited. You know that, right? I don’t think I have to spell it out, but...we want you there with us.” 

_I want you there all the time,_ Dean thinks. “I’m cooking a fancy dinner tomorrow,” he adds, like a dark molasses ham would make a difference to an angel, but Cas smiles at him so maybe it does. He flips in a tape and they listen to Boston, then Bob Seger in comfortable silence.

 

Outside the bunker, Dean turns to find Cas so close behind him they could share breath. He sucks one in and raises a finger to his lips. “I wanna surprise Sam,” he says, and Cas nods. 

Shoes off for stealth, they make their way to the sound of the television they’ve set up in a spare room they’re calling the den, with a found sofa and a second hand tan plaid herculon recliner. Sam’s in the chair; Dean can see his girly hair over the overstuffed cushion, and he’s watching a movie with what he’s pretty sure is a Mariah Carey Christmas song playing. 

“Ho, ho, ho!” he bellows, and Sam starts forward, turning with a panicked hand to his chest. 

“Jesus, Dean!”

“You’re not scared of the Christmas spirit, are you?” he asks, and catches Cas’s grin out of the corner of his eye. “Hey, this isn’t Die Hard.”

“It’s Love, Actually,” Sam says, rising to give Cas a welcoming hug. “You’d like it.”

“Doubt it,” Dean says, scoffing.

“Hey, you made it in time,” Sam checks his watch.”It’s twenty to twelve.”

“Told you.”

“What did you do, angel express?”

“A commercial flight,” Cas explains. “Dean was very brave.”

That’s a kind lie, and Dean scrubs a hand across the nape of his neck. “Yeah, well...Cas, he…” _Please don’t say it, Dean begs silently._

“I bought him liquor,” Cas says, deadpan.

Sam laughs. “That’ll do it. There’s eggnog, by the way.”

Dean loves that sweet shit, even when it’s not spiked, which his will be. “Cas? You-” but he notices Castiel is checking out the aluminum tree with a rotating light projector they’d found in a musty-smelling box in a storage room. It’s the first time Dean’s seen it lit, and it’s crazy-looking, with bright blue satiny decorations and the light shining on it cycling red to gold to green and blue and back. “Disco.”

“Well, not quite. It’s from the 1960s. Like it, Cas?” Sam says.

“Needs an angel on top,” Dean elbows Cas. “Get up there, buddy.” 

Cas spares him a long-suffering look, because yeah, the tree topper line is a running joke by now. “I do like it, Sam. Especially the blue balls. Were those for Dean?”

A second later Sam breaks up, hands on his knees, shoulders shaking with mirth. Cas looks hugely pleased, because that was actually...a joke.

“Uh huh. Yeah.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah you’re… _you_ have blue balls.”

“Strong comeback, Dean,” Sam gasps, managing to stand. “I’ll get the eggnog.”

“Booze,” Dean growls.

“‘Course.” Sam waves a hand, disappearing into the kitchen, and Dean watches Cas loosen his striped tie, habit now, he supposes. He pauses and steps closer. 

“Thanks,” he says simply, “For…” he doesn’t finish the thought, but he’s not afraid anymore, and when Cas’s hand drops to his side, Dean curls his own into it. Before them, the silvery tree glimmers in the light, branches reflecting red to gold to green to blue.


End file.
